The New House

We are now in the New House, receptacle of all the hopes and dreams of recent times. In the New House, we would turn into better versions of ourselves. The hallway would always be tidy and we spend our evenings playing musical instruments with the children rather than giving them TV dinners. (I am not sure the children were dreaming about this. I think they thought there might be satellite tv and an x-box; neither of which we had in the Old House).  After 10 days of unpacking boxes, the dream of a tidy hallway has still not come true. TV-free evenings are a reality though, as we can’t get freeview to work. We have all learnt to play chess. It’s nice to spend quality time with our children, I for one am experiencing  a virtuous glow. But, I now realise that the telly was the equivalent of an ‘off’ switch for the children. Now there is no such switch, they follow us around the house, catching us every time we try to sneak a private moment.
‘What can we do next?’ they say.
‘Ah, so nice to spend time with the kids’ we sigh, as we begin to dream of satellite TV and an x-box…and internet. Despite the fact that we have known we were moving for weeks, neither of us thought to set up internet for the New House. The result of this is that the unpacking got done much quicker, and I am typing out this post on a phone which thinks that every time I write ‘will’ I actually want to write ‘Wilkinson’, and when I type ‘the equivalent’ I mean ‘rhetoric equivalent’.
Predictive spelling is not my friend. It is in fact my worst enema…

The Filing Cabinet of Memories

We are moving house. We collect the keys for our new house, and are finally galvanised into action. It is time to clear out the filing cabinet. When we moved in together two years ago, we had to buy it to store the reams and reams of paper that we had brought with us – paper which tracked the courses of our lives. As we sort and shred receipts, letters and bills, we are looking at forgotten history; some of it shared, some of it from a separate past that we still carry with us. Like the kids’ old school reports, they show us how we got to where we are now.

My old bank statements tell a story. I am amazed to see a bank statement from 2008 showing that I was in credit with the bank, and that I spent £75 on my hair. Back in those halcyon days, when I had a proper job…

‘Wow, look, I paid for a meal at Picciolinos in 2010!’ I say, waving the evidence in the air.

‘I think we should keep that and frame it,’ says my Intended.

I remember every single outfit I bought, and why – from the baby clothes years ago, to the smart office wear for a new job, or the warm clothes for winter walks with my Intended – each one said something about my hopes, dreams and fears at the time. This is what advertisers sell us when they sell clothes: the chance to be someone new, to grow into another role or persona. Looking at my bank statements, I see that every purchase represented the start of something new.

We shred the old documents and tell each other stories from our past, deciding what to keep and what to leave behind as we prepare to move on, into the future.